At Last
by LadySolitaire83
Summary: Tumblr prompt fill for penaltywaltz/afteriwake: Sherlock is trying to sleep when he hears drunken giggling from the sitting room. Originally published on 16 June 2015. Now a multi-chapter fic, thanks to an anonymous prompt.
1. Chapter 1

**AT LAST**

 **16 June 2015**

 **A/N: Full prompt: It's two AM, Sherlock's finally attempting to get some sleep, and Baker Street is blissfully silent...until he hears a crash in the sitting room. He grabs the first thing he can think of to use for defense (that doesn't look like it will help) and goes out there, only to find a rather drunken giggling Molly picked his lock and didn't QUITE make it to the sofa. He's impressed, and so he lets her have the bed.**

 **I changed some aspects of this prompt. Hope y'all still like it!**

 **I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.**

* * *

Sherlock grabbed his mobile from the bedside table and woke it from sleep mode. "Quarter past two," he muttered to himself. Sighing, he replaced his phone on the table and flopped back on the bed.

He had come home an hour ago from helping DI Dimmock apprehend a burglar and attempted murderer. After scoffing down some Chinese takeaway and taking a quick shower to wash off the last four days, he had changed into an old T-shirt and his favourite grey pyjama bottoms before going to bed. He had been so exhausted from chasing the suspect that he had expected to sleep immediately. But, half an hour later, he was still awake.

He shut his eyes and revelled in the complete silence, hoping that it would help him sleep. A couple of minutes later, sleepiness began to creep up on him.

A crash, followed by a loud thud and a series of softer thuds, rent the air.

Sitting up, he analysed the sounds he just heard and listened for more. _That can't be Mrs Hudson_ , he thought. He knew––well, he read on the note she left him––that she was on a cruise with her latest beau. He left the bed, deftly avoiding the creaky floorboards as he walked towards the door. _Not John or Mary either._ He racked his brain for a reason either Watson would come to his flat in the middle of the night and found none. _A burglar?_ He softly scoffed. His homeless network would have alerted him if any criminal tried to break into his home. He paused as his intruder began giggling. _At least it doesn't sound like Anderson. Thank God._

He carefully opened the door, muttering a curse as it creaked and betrayed his presence.

"Datchu, Sherrock?"

He heaved a sigh of relief when he recognised the kind voice despite its owner's drunkenness. He walked towards the sitting room. "Molly, what the hell are you doing here? And how did you––" He stared at the supine figure lying between the sofa and the coffee table (as well as the mess around her). "My God! Are you all right?" Filled with concern, he helped her up and sat her on the sofa.

"Hiiiiii, Sherrooooock," said the pathologist, who giggled and ruffled his hair, distracting him as he nudged the coffee table back into its usual spot and replaced the apples in the stainless steel fruit bowl.

Resisting the urge to moan when her fingers began combing through his luxuriant curls, he removed her hand from his hair and turned to look her over. _Glitter on her hair as well as on her surprisingly well-fitted emerald green dress. Thin pink strip of paper is stuck to a stiletto heel. Went to a pub with her friends then. Hen night, probably._ Knitting his brows, he gently cupped her cheeks. "I presume by your giggles that you're not hurt and just utterly smashed?"

"Yep!" replied Molly, popping the 'p' like he did. "I aimed fo' da shofa, but I fell on da floor!"

He rolled his eyes, even though she was too drunk to see it. "Right. Well, what the hell are you doing here? The pubs closed a few hours ago," he pointed out as he checked for any injuries caused by her fall. Satisfied that there was none, he sat down next to her and sighed.

"Siobhan's hen night! At da pub!" she explained, referring to a neurosurgeon at Barts. "Den went t'er flat coupla blocks away. Da stripper was very, _verrrry_ fit!" She giggled before winking suggestively at him.

He felt a tinge of jealousy, but he chose to shake it off and to focus instead on questioning her before she fell asleep. "So you just walked two blocks while you're sloshed _and_ wearing stilettos? You're lucky no one accosted you or ran you over. Hell, you're lucky you didn't trip on the way here."

"Shomeone almos' did. Ran me ovah, I mean. Just flipped 'im off!" she replied, raising her middle fingers. Seemingly tired after that simple gesture, she laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

He reached for her hand and peered at something that had caught his eye. Chuckling, he plucked the bobby pin from her grasp. "You're picking locks now, Dr Hooper?"

She opened her eyes and nodded. "Learnt it from ya, remembah? B'sidesh, ya alwaysh pick _my_ locksh. Thought I'd'a return da favour." She settled against him and, within seconds, she began snoring.

He shook his head and stared affectionately at her, impressed that she could pick his locks despite her inebriated state. Sighing, he picked her up from the sofa. "Good girl," he muttered when she automatically wrapped her arms round his neck. He shifted her in his arms until he was comfortable.

After carefully navigating the sitting room and the kitchen, he kicked his bedroom door open. He deposited her on the armchair near his wardrobe and threw off the covers. He removed her shoes and set them on the floor before carrying her to the bed. He kissed her on the forehead as he covered her with the blanket. " _Bonne nuit, mon amour_ ," he whispered to the slumbering woman.

He straightened up and placed his hands on his hips. _Shall I sleep next to her or on the sofa?_ He shrugged and joined her in bed.

To his surprise, she turned and laid her arm across his middle, her fingers curling round his side. Sniffling, she laid her head on his shoulder. "Shmell nice," she muttered before going back to sleep.

Softly chuckling, he slid his arm under her and pulled her closer. He shut his eyes and listened to her soft snores until sleep took him at last.

* * *

 _I don't even know if that's the correct French translation for "Good night, my love". My apologies, if it isn't. I just plugged the sentence into Google Translate and pasted what I got. Hehehehe..._

 _Hate it? Like it? Love it?_


	2. Chapter 2

**AT LAST**

 **Chapter 2**

 **A/N: Full prompt from anonymous: Hello, I see you're accepting sherlolly prompts..would you do something about how everyone sees that Sherlock (including Sherlock) is in love with Molly but she's in denial? Thanks in advance. :)**

 **I decided to combine the above anon prompt from Tumblr and a sort-of prompt from Miss Whiddlesmort, who needed to know what happened in the morning, and turn this little one-shot into a multi-chapter fic.**

 **This is only the first part of the prompt fill; I'll post the rest later––in about three months. *cackles***

 **I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.**

* * *

Molly woke up with a throbbing headache and a dry mouth. She rolled onto her back and opened her bleary eyes. She thanked her lucky stars that it was her day off as she squinted up at the ceiling. _Wait. What happened to the pale green paint?_ Shielding her eyes from the bright morning light with her hand, she looked round the room and mouthed a curse. _Um, this is not my bedroom._

Her gaze landed on the pink strip of paper that was still stuck to a stiletto heel, prompting the memories of the previous night to come flooding back to her. _Oh, my God, what was in those piña coladas? Argh! I bet Rachel added tequila whenever she got the bloody drinks._ As her eyes began to adjust to the light, she also remembered picking Sherlock's locks and speaking to him on the couch. _So how did I end up in his bed?_

She softly gasped when she heard voices coming from the hallway. She slowly rose from the bed, clutching her forehead to fight off the nausea. _Oh, God._ Please _don't let me be sick on Sherlock's floor_ , she prayed as she carefully moved towards the voices. She leant back against the wall, her left hand hovering over the bathroom door handle, and listened in to the not-so-hushed conversation.

"Uh-huh. Whatever you say, dear." Mrs Hudson giggled, which only made the pounding in Molly's head worse. "Oh, I'm _so_ happy for you two! She's the perfect woman for you, Sherlock, you know? Pretty, clever, accomplished, kind, patient, loy––"

"Mrs Hudson, this is _not_ what you think it is. Molly simply called round after a night of drinking, only to fall asleep on my shoulder. I didn't want to leave her on the couch, so I brought her to my bedroom. It's convenient and logical, is all," he explained. "Shouldn't you be with your _beau_?"

"So you just decided to sleep with her?"

"We've slept in the same bed before. It's not exactly––"

"You _have_ slept together before?" The landlady sounded intrigued and shocked at the same time.

 _The poor woman would probably have a coronary if she knew how many times I've woken up in the middle of the night to find Sherlock asleep next to me_ , Molly mused.

"Well, I…" A soft growl issued from the detective's mouth. "No one is sleeping with anyone. No one is _in love_ with anyone!" he emphatically insisted.

Wincing, she covered her ears. _There's no need to shout, you git!_

"You do know she's in love with you, yeah?" Mrs Hudson asked, echoing the pathologist's thoughts.

Feeling her stomach lurch, she clamped her right hand over her mouth. She immediately went into the bathroom and retched into the toilet. Once she was done, she flushed the toilet and pulled the cover down. After a few moments' rest, she stood up to wash her mouth and hands. Finding no spare toothbrush in the cupboard, she squeezed a bit of toothpaste onto the pad of her forefinger and cleaned her teeth and tongue. She used the deep cleansing oil that she found in the cabinet to remove her make-up and, after rinsing it off, lathered up with the gentle foaming cleanser. After patting her skin dry with a white towel, she ran her fingers through her hair and put it up in a bun. She surveyed her reflection in the mirror and sighed. _This is so not how I'd like to spend the morning after sleeping in Sherlock's bed._ "But, hey, since when did my reality measure up to my fantasies?" she muttered to herself.

"Molly?" Two quick raps on the door followed his voice. "Are you all right in there?"

"Y-yeah," she replied in a hoarse voice. She took a deep breath before opening the door.

The detective stood in the hallway with a glass of water in one hand and two tablets in the other. "To rehydrate you and to relieve your headache," he said as he handed her the items. "It's clean," he assured her with a sigh and an eye roll when she hesitated to take the tumbler.

"Thank you," answered Molly before she swallowed the tablets and drank some water.

"Come on." Taking the tumbler from her, he placed his free hand on her lower back and guided her towards the sofa. "Mrs Hudson is just making breakfast. She'll be back in 15 minutes." He put the drinking glass on the coffee table, helped her sit down, and settled next to her.

Curling up with her arms wrapped round her stomach, she gnawed on her lower lip and gazed at the detective. "I'm _so_ sorry for bothering you and for all the daft things that my inebriated self said and did last night. I don't know what came over me and I––"

"Which daft thing do you mean? Falling to the floor, practically drooling over the 'very, _verrrry_ fit' stripper, or flipping off a motorist that almost ran you over on the way here?" He chuckled when she frowned and raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't worry about it. In fact, you successfully picked my locks without alerting me. That was impressive, especially in your drunken state." He stared at her with a strange expression in his eyes. "If you do attend another friend's hen party or get this intoxicated again, though, please call or text me so I can fetch you and ensure that you get home safe."

"Sherlock, you don't have to do that. You really don't. I can actually take care of myself." She gave him a sheepish smile. "Well, when I'm not utterly sloshed, that is."

"I know. But I _want_ to. I won't let any harm to come to you." He flashed her an affectionate smile. "I'd be lost without my pathologist."

She ducked her head and began removing glitter from her dress to hide her smile and flushed cheeks. "I'll remember to put a few scalpels in my purse when I go out drinking next time."

"Why didn't you bring them last night?" He looked her up and down and furrowed his brows. "You could have put them in your garter wallet."

She froze for a moment before sighing. She covered her face with her hands. "I know, I know." She dropped her hands and fiddled with the hem of her dress. "I usually bring a scalpel when I go to pubs or whatever. But I couldn't find my newly purchased set, and I was already running late. So I just hoped that I wouldn't need it and left my flat. I honestly don't know how I managed to get here in one piece. I suppose I need to thank Mycroft for my security detail, eh?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," he said, a smirk dancing on his lips.

She smiled back at him and nodded. "Well, Siobhan is the last of my friends to get married, so there'll be no more heavy drinking for a while." She reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Thank you for taking care of me last night and this morning."

"You're in my home and my friend. I can't just leave you to fend for yourself when you are ill." He looked down for a moment before chuckling. "You also helped me sleep last night. So I suppose we're even."

"I did? That's nice." She giggled at the mild annoyance on his face. Removing her hand from his, she stretched out her legs in front of her and sat back against the armrest. She ignored his raised eyebrow when she rested her feet on his lap. "So Sally told me you've been helping out DI Dimmock. What was the case about?" she asked, prompting his eyes to light up.

He had just finished recounting how he solved the case when Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway with a tray of food. She laid the large wooden tray––on which she arranged a plate of eggs Benedict, a bowl of vegetable soup, a banana, and a packet of salted pretzels––on the coffee table and, after telling them to wait, came down the stairs again. She returned a minute later with the tea.

"The soup is for you, Molly," she began as she set the tea tray down. "But you're also welcome to take some of his breakfast. He's not going to finish it anyway."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the giggling pathologist as he gently lifted her feet from his lap and set them on the floor, but he held his tongue. Instead, he picked up his fork and began eating.

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson. Did I bother you last night when I picked the lock on the front door?"

She shook her head. "No, not at all. I was still on the cruise ship with Walter when you called round. You must have been fast asleep when I came home at four in the morning."

Molly smiled and sighed in relief. "Thank God. I would've been so horrified if I bothered your sleep or something."

She waved her hand and chuckled. "Don't worry about it, dear. Even if I were home when you arrived, I would've been in bed with Walter anyway."

"And I'd be yelling at them to turn down their sex noises. He's a bit of a screamer, you see."

"Hush, child," she chastised her tenant before she winked at the other woman. "Bananas and pretzels can help ease hangover. I also have a fruit smoothie in the fridge if you want it."

"I think these are enough for now," she replied with a little giggle as she picked up her spoon. She shut her eyes as she tasted the soup, and a soft moan issued from her throat. "Oh, my God! This is amazing!"

Mrs Hudson did a little curtsey, which made them chuckle. "I hope you feel better soon, Molly. Just send Sherlock downstairs if you need anything, all right?" She smiled and clasped her hands together when the pathologist nodded. "I'll just leave you lovebirds in peace. Bye!" Then she hurried down the stairs.

Molly almost spat out her soup. She turned to Sherlock with wide eyes. "Did she just say what I _think_ she said?"

He laid his fork on the plate and heaved a dramatic sigh. "Yes, she did say that. She found us sleeping in my bed, and now she thinks we're a couple." He glanced at her, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He cleared his throat before resuming his breakfast. "I corrected her, of course. We can't have her spreading false rumours, can we?"

Frowning, she stared at him. "You're right," she agreed after sipping some water. "We're just good friends. Like you and John."

He stared at her for a moment before nodding. "Yes. You and I are 'platonic soulmates,' as Mary would say."

She gave him a tight smile before she resumed eating. She hated how that still hurt. She should be glad that he considered her a platonic soulmate. _I_ am _glad_ , she thought. _I mean, why would I be anything other than a friend? I'm not as gorgeous and confident as Janine. I'm not as sexy as Irene Adler. At least he appreciates my mind and my friendship._

They finished their breakfast and tea in silence. She moved to clear the plates, but the hand on her wrist stopped her.

"Let me." He began putting the dishes back onto the trays despite her protests. "Just rest on the sofa. Or in the bedroom, if you feel you'd be more comfortable there," he added.

"Are you sure? I'd hate to trouble you even more."

"Of course I'm sure. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it. You can shower here too once you're feeling better." He picked up the wooden tray, leaving the tea tray on the table.

"But what am I going to change into? I don't have my clothes here," she pointed out.

He thought for a moment. "Mrs Hudson is doing her laundry today. You're welcome to wear one of my shirts while you wait for your clothes to dry."

"Wouldn't she mind?"

"God, no. She clearly approves of you. But, regardless of our claims to the contrary, she'll insist that we're shagging anyway. And she'd be mortified if I let you go home with a bit of sick on your dress. So I'll take care of the dishes, and I will drop off your clothes at Mrs Hudson's flat when I return her trays. Feel free to sleep the day away. I'll deal with Carlton if he calls you in."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You know how to wash the dishes?"

He rolled his eyes in impatience. "Do you need any help to get to the bedroom?"

She shook her head and slowly rose from the sofa. She held on to the armrest and placed her other hand on her stomach until the room stopped spinning. "Nope. I think I can make it, thanks. And I think I'm going to shower first."

Sherlock nodded. "All right. I'll get you a clean shirt and a spare pair of pyjama bottoms while you're in the shower."

Amazed at his thoughtfulness, she followed him to the kitchen and waited until the wooden tray was safe on the worktop. Then she rose on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. "Thank you, Sherlock." She giggled at the adorable flush on his 'buffering face' (as John and Mary called it) before going into the bathroom.

Her neatly folded clothes were gone from the bathroom floor when she stepped out of the shower 20 minutes later. Wrapped in a white towel, she opened the door to the bedroom and found a blue 'Keep Calm and Love Bees' T-shirt and a pair of cropped pyjama bottoms, as well as her garter wallet, on the bed. She quickly changed into them and stared at her reflection in the mirror. _I bet Mary or John gave this shirt to Sherlock_ , she speculated with a giggle. She sobered a little when her gaze fell on the lilac pyjama bottoms. _Whose pyjamas are these? Janine's?_ She shook her head to get rid of a few jealous thoughts and sighed.

She paused en route to the bed when she noticed that the flat was quiet. "Where had Sherlock gone?" she muttered to herself as she listened for his movements. She called out his name several times, but she received no answer. _He must be at Mrs Hudson's flat._ Sleepiness creeping up on her, she shrugged it off and climbed into bed. Within a few minutes, she was asleep.

* * *

 _I've never been this drunk in my life, so thanks to NHS, WebMD, Fitness Magazine, and MedicalDaily for the hangover cure info._

 _Stay tuned for Chapter 3!_


	3. Chapter 3

**AT LAST**

 **Chapter 3**

 **A/N: Full prompt from anonymous: Hello, I see you're accepting sherlolly prompts..would you do something about how everyone sees that Sherlock (including Sherlock) is in love with Molly but she's in denial? Thanks in advance. :)**

 **The final chapter deals with the 'everyone' part of the prompt. It's not just Mrs Hudson teasing Sherlolly about our favourite pathologist sleeping over at 221B.**

 **The companion story _I'll Take Care Of You_ , which answers Molly's question at the end of the previous chapter, is the twelfth fic in my _Piece By Piece_ ficlet collection.**

 **Sorry it took forever! I hope y'all like this _long_ final chapter anyway!**

 **I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.**

* * *

Molly took a deep breath and knocked thrice on the Watsons' door. Taking a step back, she straightened the thin red ribbon wrapped round the white box in her hand. Peeking into the red gift bag in her other hand, she checked that the bottle of red wine was still intact. _I think I look OK_ , she thought as she checked her bright yellow kitten heels for smudges and admired the sunny flowers on her shift dress _._ She looked up when she heard the door open and smiled when she saw Mary standing in the doorway. "Happy birthday!" she greeted her friend before kissing her on the cheek.

Mary giggled as she took the presents. "Thanks, Molls." She moved aside to let her in. "Come in, come in. We're just waiting for the boys."

"Oh, are they on a case?" she asked as she crossed the threshold.

"Yeah. Well, they've solved the case, so they should be helping Greg arrest the suspect right now. John will text me once they're on their way."

Molly waved at Mrs Hudson (on whose lap sat baby Hannah), Dr Stamford, Anderson, and Sally Donovan. She was about to take a step towards them when Mary seized her arm. "What is it?" she asked in a low voice, knitting her eyebrows in confusion.

"Why didn't you tell me that you spent last Saturday at 221B?" Mary whispered to her ear.

Molly sighed and glanced at the landlady, who was waving Hannah's little hand at her. "Oh, God. Does everyone know about that?"

Mary bit her lower lip and nodded. "Don't worry. We're all thrilled." She released her arm. "Why don't you join the others while I put this wine in the fridge? I'm sure they all want to hear the full story straight from the horse's mouth." She winked as she went into the kitchen, her laughter drowning out the pathologist's soft groan.

Molly kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek and said hello to the baby. She smiled and thanked Anderson when he gave up his spot on the sofa for her. She exchanged pleasantries with Sally and Stamford as she sat between them.

"How are you, Molly?" asked the elderly woman. "It's been a week since you called round."

"I'm well, Mrs Hudson, thanks for asking. Yeah, I've just been so busy at work," she replied as she made faces at the laughing baby, who then stretched her chubby arms towards her. "For some reason, a lot of bodies ended up in my morgue this week. I actually just got off a double shift. How are things? And how is dear Walter?"

"Walter and I are just fine, thanks." Mrs Hudson giggled. "No wonder Sherlock's also been out on cases the entire week," the landlady remarked as she handed baby Hannah to the pathologist. "Have you seen him at all these past several days?"

The landlady's teasing tone was not lost on Molly––or on anyone else in the room. Hearing someone clear their throat next to her, she turned to Sally, who exchanged glances with the grinning Anderson. She caught Stamford's smirk and tried to cover her raised eyebrow by making faces at the babbling baby on her lap. She caught a glimpse of Mary, who still busied herself in the kitchen, and was unsurprised to see her grinning like a loon at the septuagenarian's words.

Softly sighing, Molly turned her attention back to Mrs Hudson. "Um, not much, actually. I did do the post-mortem for one of his cases. I last saw him the other day, when I showed him the body and gave him the cause of death. As per usual, he barely let me finish before he ran out of the morgue. I texted him the toxicological test results for his case, but I haven't heard from him since."

"No kisses, eh?" Mary teased as she set a glass of lemonade in front of the pathologist. The blonde woman pulled a stool from the breakfast bar and parked it next to Mrs Hudson's armchair.

"Nope, no kisses." Molly sat Hannah on her lap and wrapped her hands round the baby's belly. "Sherlock and I are just friends," she insisted, narrowing her eyes at her smirking friend.

"But what about Mrs Hudson's juicy little story?" Stamford asked.

"Yeah," Sally agreed. "She said you spent the entire day at his flat last week. Is that true?"

 _Here we go_ , she thought with a sigh. "OK, here's what happened: I went to my friend's hen party," she began as she resumed bouncing the baby on her lap. "Then I had this _brilliant_ idea to walk two blocks to 221B in my stilettos while massively intoxicated. Thank God Mrs Hudson wasn't home when I picked the locks on the front door and on Sherlock's door. Anyway, I was too drunk to land on his sofa, so I ended up on his floor. He found me and helped me up to the sofa. But I conked out in the middle of our chat and woke up in his bed the next morning."

Mrs Hudson giggled, but the rest of her captive audience gasped dramatically and looked at each other with wide eyes.

"Oh, get your minds out of the gutter!" she protested, rolling her eyes as her friends lightly chuckled. "I passed out on his shoulder, so he carried me to his bedroom. I woke up with my clothes still on, so _obviously_ all we did was sleep."

Mrs Hudson leant forward. "The next morning, after I got home from my cruise, I went upstairs to check on him," she added. "I found them in his bed!" She giggled. "And, you know, he had this look of contentment, as though he just had the best and most refreshing sleep of his life. Then he opened his eyes, panicked for a moment when he saw me and, just like Molly here, insisted they weren't involved."

"Because we aren't," she maintained, masking her frustration with a brief chuckle. "Anyway, once we finished the wonderful breakfast that Mrs Hudson prepared, I showered. I took a long nap, while Sherlock fetched some clothes and poor Toby from my flat. He ordered food from Angelo's, and then we watched crap telly until I felt a lot better. And, if you must know, I slept in my own bed last Saturday night." She drank some lemonade. "See? We're _just_ friends."

"But you still have feelings for him, yeah?" asked Anderson.

"W-well... y-yeah," she stammered, her cheeks burning. "But Sherlock isn't interested in me that way. And I don't think he wants to, you know, date anyone unless it's for a case, and I respect that. We're proper friends now, and that's enough for me."

"Are you sure he doesn't want to date _you_?" enquired Mary before she sipped from her own glass of lemonade.

Knitting her brows, Molly stared at her. "What do you mean? Why would he want to date _me_?" she asked as she let out an incredulous giggle. "He's not in love with me. He cannot _possibly_ be in love with _me_!" she insisted when Mary only raised her eyebrow in response. She glanced at the others' faces. "Is he?"

Mary sighed. "I know we haven't known each other for very long, but John has told me a lot about you and Sherlock. I've also observed your interactions with Sherlock, and I've noted some things. One, according to John, he can't remember Sherlock ever apologising to anyone––until _you_ called him out for ruining that Christmas party a few years ago. That is a _huge_ deal. Also, I've seen you give him a look when he's being an arse to anyone, and he immediately apologises. My God, you don't even have to say a word to let him know he has said or done something, as John would say, 'a bit not good'. _Just_ _one look_ , and he's chastised!"

Molly swallowed hard and stared at her blonde friend. Yes, she had noticed that. But she was sure she was not special, that John, Mary, or Mrs Hudson could make him apologise with a look as well.

"Two," Mary continued when the pathologist said nothing, "he's secretly amused when you joke about your 'patients' or their internal organs. I've seen this goofy little smirk on his face when you make your morbid jokes. He may not openly laugh, probably because he wants to maintain his cool façade, but I'm sure he loves your sense of humour.

"Three, he's been trying _so hard_ to be kind, especially to you. I mean, he bites back his deductions and comments about everything, particularly your relationship with Tom. It would seem that Sherlock doesn't want to hurt you or upset you again, even when he knew that you were settling with Meat Dagger."

Molly winced before she burst out laughing. She shook her head at her friend, who smirked back at her, while the others howled in laughter.

"Four," resumed Mary after the laughter died down, "he could have stopped you when you slapped him. But he didn't. He _endured_ them instead. Granted, he did mildly insult you after you demanded him to apologise. Even then, he didn't insult your intelligence or your appearance. He only made a completelyinaccurate comment about the ring that Meat Dagger gave you. Which, let's be real here, was a weak attempt to deflect your anger away from him. _Why_ he chose to comment on your relationship status is beyond me." Mary waggled her eyebrows, making them laugh again.

"Also, when you're showing him a body and talking about the post-mortem or test results," Sally began, prompting the others to turn towards her, "he'd stare at you with this…" Her forehead creased in concentration, she trailed off and stared up at the ceiling. "This… _fond_ expression and a bit of a smile, as if he's so impressed with your attention to morbid detail and your out-of-the-box thinking."

"Which he is," chimed in Stamford. "Once, I asked him why he'd demand for you every time a post-mortem is required. He said it's because you're the most competent pathologist and one of the most intelligent people he's ever met. Believe me, that's the best compliment anyone could get from a genius like him."

"Oh!" interjected Mrs Hudson. "I'd come up to give Sherlock his tea and find them hunched over their experiments in the kitchen. She probably doesn't know this, but I sometimes watch them work together. They would look at whatever is on those little glass slides and then compare notes or something. Sometimes he wouldn't agree with her observations, or vice versa, and they'd argue about it. But, for the most part, they'd prove or even add to each other's results. They work really well together."

"Actually, I've noticed that," Stamford concurred. "They're efficient together too."

"He asked for your help when he needed to fake his suicide," Anderson pointed out, causing Stamford to stare at Molly. "He could have asked anyone else, but he didn't. He trusted _you_ to help him outwit Moriarty and his snipers." The newly reinstated forensic scientist beamed when the rest nodded in agreement with him.

"Here's the thing, Molly," Mary began. "Quite honestly, Sherlock treats you better than he does almost everyone else. He respects and admires your intelligence. He likes––actually, _prefers_ ––working with you. Since he realised how much he's hurt you, he has tried to do better and treat you with more kindness than he has shown most people." Smiling, she paused as she leant forward. "Has he emotionally manipulated you into forgiving him?"

"Well, no, he only needs to apologise and be sincere about it. He may flirt with me to, um, expedite things, but I don't think you could call it 'manipulation' if I knew exactly what he's doing."

"Good. Has he drugged you without your consent and knowledge?"

"Um, no, I don't think he's drugged me or anything. He'd better not, because I _can_ and _will_ get his morgue and lab access revoked."

Mary nodded, amidst light chuckles from the others. "You stand up to him, and he'll actually listen to you. You know when he's trying to manipulate you, and you can tell him to stuff it. And—"

"When I do decide to help him, it's because I actually _want_ to help out."

Mary smiled at her words. "Exactly. Speaking of which, you've shown him that caring for other people is not a bad thing, that it's not a weakness. You've proven that he could trust you with his life. You've been his friend even before he met John and a constant presence in his adult life. And _perhaps_ he'd like to, you know, add a bit of snogging—or however else he defines romance—to your existing relationship."

Molly took a moment to process what her friends said, as Hannah stared up at her and babbled something. "All right. So a romantic relationship between us wouldn't be such a bad idea. But I'm still not convinced that he has feelings for me."

"Who has feelings for you?" a familiar deep baritone asked.

Molly turned towards the front door and saw Sherlock, John, and Greg staring at her. "Nobody!" she answered, while the others gave a similar reply. She struggled to keep her hold on Hannah, as the baby stood up to greet her father and uncles.

Mary rose from her chair and placed her hands on her hips. "John, you were supposed to text me once you're on the way!"

The former army doctor frowned and stared into space for a moment before making his way towards his wife to kiss her on the lips. "Er, I did." He said hello to their guests before he took Hannah from Molly, kissed his giggling daughter on her face, and told her how much he missed her.

Mary furrowed her brows as she pulled her mobile out of her taupe cropped trousers' back pocket. She mouthed a curse as she checked her messages. "Yes, you did," she conceded with a sigh. "I'm sorry." She glanced at Molly. "We must have been having so much fun that I didn't hear my phone buzz." She smiled as he narrowed his eyes at her.

"That's fine. It's not a big deal," John replied with a small shrug. After asking Greg if he wanted a bottle of beer, he headed for the fridge with his daughter in his arm.

Sherlock, on the other hand, slowly advanced towards them and stuck his hands in his coat pockets. "You aren't talking about me, are you?" he asked, prompting Molly's heart to thump hard in her chest.

"Why would we talk about you?" Sally asked, smirking and raising her eyebrow at him. "Our lives don't actually revolve around you, you know?"

He locked eyes with Molly, uncharacteristic apprehension in his gaze. He cleared his throat before shrugging his shoulders. "Could be any reason, really. But your collective and individual reactions to my presence gave it away."

"Why? Do _you_ have feelings for Molly, Sherlock?" asked Mary with a knowing smirk.

John briefly chuckled before he swigged at his beer. "Subtle," he remarked with a sly wink.

Greg leant back against the breakfast bar. "Of course he does," he stated with a matter-of-fact shrug.

Nearly everyone stared at him in shock.

"What do you mean?" Mrs Hudson was the first person to recover.

The detective inspector glanced at each one and swallowed. His eyes lingered on the consulting detective. "Would you like to...?" He trailed off and gestured towards the pathologist.

"What are you on about, _Graham_?" Sherlock growled.

Greg sighed. "Did you delete it already from your mind palace?" He shrugged when the younger detective said nothing. "Well, he's been humming a certain tune since he came back from his four-minute exile. Back then, I reckoned it's just one of those obscure classical songs, so I didn't think much about it. A few months ago, I heard him hum the song while watching Molly examine the corpse in the pub near Barts. When I finally asked him what song it was, he wouldn't tell me at first. I thought, 'What's up with that?' So I bugged him about it every time we saw each other. Only—"

"Molly, um, could I see you upstairs for a bit?" Sherlock blurted out. He then strode towards the stairs and held his hands behind him as he waited.

Slightly confused, Molly stood up and walked towards him. She knitted her eyebrows and stared at him. "Sherlock, what is Greg talking about?" she asked under her breath.

"We'll be in the spare bedroom," the consulting detective threw over his shoulder before placing his hand on her back. "I'll tell you in a minute," he replied. "You look lovely in that dress, Molly."

She gave him a bashful smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Sherlock!" Greg exclaimed before chuckling.

"Why don't you take the spot that Molly vacated and ask Donovan to dinner already, eh, _Geoff_?" he retorted as he opened the safety gate for her.

"Sherlock!" she hissed, glaring back at him.

"What? I'm just returning the _favour_!" he hissed back.

She stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. "Fair enough," she muttered to herself.

She could feel his gaze on her back, as they ascended the stairs. _Was Greg_ _implying that Sherlock wrote me a song?_ She glanced at Sherlock once they reached the landing and shook her head. _It's not possible. He didn't write a song about me or for me... did he?_

She entered the small bedroom/office and watched him close the door. She stood by the sofa bed and folded her arms across her chest. "What's the song called, Sherlock?" she asked before he had had the chance to face her.

He sighed and ran his hand through his curls. "Nothing. Just ignore Gavin." He ducked his head and refused to look at her.

"It can't be nothing. Otherwise, Greg wouldn't have said anything and you wouldn't have asked to talk to me up here," she pointed out. She cradled his face in her hands and gently lifted his head, so she could look into his eyes. "Sherlock?" she whispered.

He gave her a resigned look. "The sonata is called 'Molly,' all right! And, yes, it's about you," he answered in an exasperated tone. He took a deep breath. "I started composing it after John and Mary's wedding. But I only finished it once that Moriarty twin business was over and you were safe." He flashed her a soft smile. "Would you like to listen to it?"

She returned his smile. "I'd love to, Sherlock. But why did you compose it? And what do Mary, John, and Greg know that I don't and probably should know?"

"What did Mary tell you?" he asked, knitting his brows.

"I asked you first," she countered with a smirk.

"Fine," he growled. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I presume they've been wondering if we were dating after you slept over last week?"

"Yeah, they are. I've been denying it, but I don't think they believe me. They even tried to convince me that _you're_ in love with me." Giving a wry laugh, she moved her hand down to his neck. "Is Mary right? Mrs Hudson? Greg?"

He took her left wrist and pressed his fingers against her pulse point. Slipping his fingers between hers, he gazed at her with an affectionate look in his eyes. "Gabriel's right," he admitted. "So are Mary and the others." He took a deep breath before he took her other hand and held her palm to his heart. "I _am_ in love with you, Molly."

Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "You are?" she asked after a beat. "But h-how?"

To her surprise, Sherlock chuckled. "Haven't the faintest idea how. But I wrote the sonata to help me deal with my feelings. I tried to hide it, of course, but Mary caught me giving you what she referred to as 'heart eyes' exactly 42 days ago. So she grilled me until I admitted that I am indeed in love with you and that I fear you don't feel the same way anymore." Tenderly gazing at her, he stepped closer until he was all she could see. "Do you still love me, Molly?"

Her heart hammering in her chest, she swallowed as she stared at his lips. She searched his face for any hint of deception. Finally, she smiled and sighed in relief when she found none. "Yes," she whispered. "Oh, God, yes."

His mouth curved into a genuinely happy smile and his cheeks turned an endearing pink. He squeezed her hands, and his flush deepened. "Would you like to skip this party and go to my flat instead?"

She giggled and shook her head. "I doubt Mary would like that. It's her birthday, Sherlock!"

He rolled his eyes. "It's only a _party_. Her actual birthday is on Monday. She won't mind if we left."

Crinkling her nose, she shook her head again. "I can't leave until I see her reaction to my other present!" She bit her lower lip and grinned at him. "We could go to your flat _after_ the party."

He sighed. "All right, fair enough. Would you spend the night?" Hope shone in his eyes.

"If you get me drunk enough," she replied with a wink.

"Oh, no, that wouldn't do." He released her hands, and his arms wrapped round her waist. "I need you completely sober for what I'm planning for our first official night together."

She gasped in mock outrage. "You haven't even kissed me yet, you naughty man!"

"Would you like me to?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

She raised herself on her tiptoes and slung her arms round his neck. "Yes, please."

An Etta James song began playing in her head as their lips touched.

* * *

 _Thank you so much for reading and favouriting/reviewing this work! I hope you all liked it!_

 _Thoughts? Hate it? Like it? Love it?_


End file.
